


Blood on the Pavement

by AleineSkyfire



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Character Death, Multi, Romance, Sherbeth, Suicide, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 03:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AleineSkyfire/pseuds/AleineSkyfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catch-all for my Sherlockian character death-shots. Most will likely not be part of my personal canon, and universes will vary. Starts off with Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood on the Pavement

**Author's Note:**

> "...if the woman I loved had met such an end..." — DEVI

It’s raining.

Fitting, that. Cliche, maybe, but cliches do work sometimes, as they do now.

It’s raining.

it’s a chill spring rain that penetrates you to the very bone with cold. Freshwater and blood roll slowly off your hands, drip steadily onto the pavement. Diluted scarlet on the kerb — watercolour.

You stare at your hands, because perhaps if you do so long enough, none of this will ever have happened. Life will return to the way it was, and your world won’t be broken

splintered

shattered…

Shattered like the woman lying on the pavement, the woman you’re trying hard to ignore, because she can’t be dead. She can’t. She can’t. Not her. Anyone but her. Too full of life to be dead. Too full of passion, kindness, hope, love.

Too loved by you to be dead.

But your gaze is inevitably, unwillingly drawn towards her.

She’s white. So unnaturally white, like marble, except for where scarlet has trickled across her beautiful features. Her neck is bent at an unnatural angle, as are her limbs.

For a moment, you can think rationally again. Clinically. This what you’ve trained yourself to do, after all: look Death in the face and avenge its victims with justice. But you can hold yourself above madness only for so long, and then everything pulls you under.

_This isn’t happening._

_This can’t be real._

_She can’t be dead._

_I love her._

_I never told her._

_It’s my fault._

_She can’t be dead._

**_She can’t._ **

_She…_

You drop to your knees beside her, welcoming the physical pain of hitting the pavement. You reach out to her, trembling, afraid. No pulse. Nothing. Limp weight in your arms as you lift her, cold body as you lower your head to her shoulder and sob.

_I killed her._

_I killed her just as surely as if I had cast her off the rooftop._

_I didn’t stop her from tackling Moriarty._

_Wasn’t swift enough._

_I killed her.  
_

Moriarty lies dead nearby, as white and broken as she is, but the price paid for his death is unthinkably high. Why had you not stopped him sooner? Beth would still be alive. She wouldn’t be white and broken and cold and lifeless, and, _oh, dear God in heaven, it’s too much, I can’t bear it…_

“I love you, Beth,” you gasp between sobs. “Forgive me, my love. I love you. Forgive me. Forgive me.”

You kiss her cold, white brow and lower her gently to the pavement once more.

“Forgive me,” you whisper one last time, and draw your revolver.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason, I recently felt a horrible need to write SERIOUS Sherbeth angst.


End file.
